


love is the only truth we know

by TheSilverQueen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dean Winchester Deserves to be Happy, Don't copt to another site, FBI Agent Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Phoenix Castiel (Supernatural), Profound Bond Gift Exchange (Supernatural), Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Reunion, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29567415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: Dean isn’t stupid; he’s well aware that people can’t lie to their soulmates. Still, it comes as a bit of a shock when he knocks on Castiel Novak’s door during a case and the words “Hi, I’m Dean Winchester, I’m a hunter pretending to be with the FBI so I can ask you if you’ve seen a ghost recently” come out of his mouth.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 21
Kudos: 284
Collections: Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Reunion





	love is the only truth we know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kazshero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazshero/gifts).



> This was written for the [Profound Bond Gift Exchange](https://profoundnet.fandom.com/wiki/Profound_Bond_Exchange) for the theme of "Reunion"! Many thanks to the mods for running this amazing event, and to my darling [Victorine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/pseuds/victorine) who let me ramble incessantly to her and beta read it for me <3
> 
> Kazshero, I hope you like this. You said soulmates and I immediately was like "YES" and dug through every soulmate trope list I could find until I saw "soulmates who can't lie to each other" and thought that would be hilarious for Dean/Castiel.

_Dean’s drunk._

_It isn’t a new state of being for him, honestly. It’s been a while since he’s gotten this drunk but, in his defense, it’s been a while since things fell apart quite so spectacularly. In his opinion, Sam abandoning them for a “normal” life and his father telling Sam to never come back ranks pretty high up there in terms of terrible days._

_Usually, Dean can talk them down – or, more likely, talk Sam down – but Dean’s never seen him so angry, so stubborn, so full of hatred. And Sam had blown out the door with his duffle bag before Dean could stop him, although not before his father could berate him for hours on end._

_So, here Dean is, filling the emptiness in his heart with the miracle of alcohol. Not a new state of being and probably not an unfamiliar one going forward._

_What is unfamiliar is someone intruding on his solitude, though._

_“You look unhappy,” says the person sitting next to Dean._

_Dean toasts him with his now-empty glass. “And you’re the new Sherlock Holmes,” he drawls._

_The man doesn’t reply to that, so Dean turns back to drowning his feelings in alcohol. Normally, he’d turn on the charm and lay it down thick, because no hunter can afford to piss off the local populace too much, but hell, he’s not on a hunt, and in a few days they’ll be gone from this town never to return. The dissolution of the only family he has left warrants a pity party of at least one night, and Dean is determined to keep that pity party to a membership of one._

_“Was that sarcasm?”_

_“Yes,” Dean snaps without moving, because having a younger brother teaches you an excellent command of telling people to go away without saying anything._

_This man, however, cannot take a hint, apparently. He leans towards Dean, enough that Dean can feel the heat of his body along his side, and he says, “I have been told that when you are upset, talking about it can help.”_

_“I’ve been told,” Dean mimics. “What are you, a robot?”_

_“No. Would you like to talk about why you’re upset?” the man persists._

No. _“Yes,” Dean says, the traitorous word spilling out his mouth as easy as beer sliding down the side of his glass. And the words just keep coming: “My brother left me. And I’m pretty sure he’s not coming back.”_

_The man – fortunately for his continued state of being on this plane of existence – doesn’t ask any questions or recite any meaningless platitudes or offer useless reassurances. He just stays lingering within Dean’s personal space, present like an orbiting moon, and hums a little under his breath. If he were sober, Dean might even call it commiseration._

_Then: “My brother left me too, once.”_

_It’s low and quiet, hard to hear above the noise and chatter in the bar, but Dean’s senses are fine-tuned after a childhood of hunting. He can hear the doubt and the pain in those words, the empathy that stops short of pity. For some reason, it settles the roiling sea of Dean’s stomach more than the countless beers he has consumed._

_Dean asks, “Did he ever come back?” His voice is broken and probably gives too much away, but Sam has been part of Dean as long as he can remember – protect Sammy, watch over Sammy, Sammy is your responsibility now – and a man can only go so far before he shatters._

_“That is probably a conversation for a booth,” the man replies. He pauses. “And food.”_

_There’s a soft thump as the man slides off the stool next to Dean. He walks without pausing or looking back, like he has absolute faith that Dean – the drunk guy he just met five seconds ago – will follow and obey. And yeah, Dean did just spill his guts to this man and Dean has been drilled since childhood to_ obey _but still. There’s no way this man could know that._

_And the thing is: Dean didn’t get a bad vibe off the guy. He’s got a pretty good instinct; most hunters do. He’s pretty damn sure he could sit here and keep drinking or just walk straight out, and the man wouldn’t follow. And either of those would probably be the smart choice in this situation._

_Then again, when has Dean ever made the smart choice?_

_Dean grabs his beer and slips off the stool to follow._

* * *

_They end up in Castiel’s motel room (“What kind of name is that?” “My parents were religious.”) because it’s within walking distance and Castiel had moaned so prettily when Dean kissed down his neck that his brain had leaked out of his ears and he’d dumbly followed when Castiel tugged at his hand. Castiel tastes like burgers and the slice of apple pie they had shared when they’d progressed from swapping sad family stories (“Never mind, what kind of name is_ Lucifer _?” “Mostly we called him Luke.”) to unashamedly eyeing each other (“You, uh, you wanna get out of here?” “Yes.”)._

_Or, well. Dean had unashamedly eyed Castiel. He can’t be blamed for that – the trench coat is baggy and huge and swallows Castiel whole like he’s a kid playing dress up, but his suit is form-fitting and now that Dean has gotten half of his shirt off, he can tell that the dude’s got a very nice chest. Nice arms too. If he had any brainpower left, it would have made a swift exit left._

_Fortunately, at this point, Castiel has also managed to get half of Dean’s shirt off, and the way his pupils dilate and he swallows visibly does wonders for Dean’s self-esteem. “Dean,” he breathes, voice somehow even deeper than it had been when it first captured Dean’s attention. “Dean, you’re beautiful.”_

_“Aw, you don’t need to say that,” Dean says. “I’m already a sure thing.”_

_“Doesn’t make it less true,” Castiel insists, and then he drops to his knees and Dean’s witty repartee dies a quick death._

_They leave a trail of clothing to the bed, like some kind of messed up version of adult breadcrumbs, and the conscious part of Dean is already dreading the struggle it’s going to be to get dressed tomorrow, but the rest of him does not care at all, because Castiel is kissing him like the world’s going to end tomorrow, and it’s so flattering to be the sole focus of his keen sharp-edged mind. Usually, when Dean flirts with a waitress or server, they’re willing to let Dean take the lead but not Castiel – it was Castiel who dragged them here, and Castiel who started attacking Dean’s clothing first, and Castiel who first set his teeth to Dean’s flesh and ignited the fire in his belly. It’s strange but it’s not bad at all, and Dean wants with a fierceness that surprises even him._

_Castiel nudges his cheek against Dean’s, like a cat. It’s strangely fond, from a stranger. “You have a very serious face on,” he notes mildly, like he doesn’t have Dean pinned to the wall and isn’t turning his muscles into jelly with roaming hands and sharp teeth. “What are you thinking about?”_

_And, honestly, Dean’s starting to suspect that either something was in that beer or Castiel is some kind of witch because, once again, the traitorous words just – just fall out._

_“I think I’m bi.”_

_Castiel’s brow wrinkles and he pulls back, a little. And how does Dean already know him so well, that he easily predicts Castiel’s little head tilt and confused squint? “Okay?”_

_“I – I haven’t – ”_

_“You haven’t told anyone.”_

_“Yeah.” Dean sags against the wall. Castiel’s tone is blank, as neutral as his face, and Dean has no idea what else to say. “Yeah,” he says again._

_And Castiel – Castiel just leans in, and tugs him close, and kisses him, sweet and strong, like the first sip of lemonade after a long day’s hard work. It doesn’t reignite the dimming fire in Dean’s belly, but it does keep it from dying out completely. It says acceptance and comfort and something deeper, something strong and powerful and fierce, and Dean’s too weak not to take everything Castiel is foolish enough to give him._

_“Then I am honored to be the first you’ve told,” Castiel tells him, when he draws back once the need for oxygen becomes paramount. He says it as solemnly as though Dean had bequeathed his entire fortune and family heritage instead of just a last minute realization about his sexuality, and the gravity would make Dean squirm away if Castiel wasn’t literally holding him in place. “You should find happiness wherever you can.”_

_It feels a little like Castiel is looking into the very depths of his soul._

_And Dean’s never taken well to being judged._

_He bristles. “Can we get on with the program here? Cuz I can go back to the bar and find someone else.”_

_“Well, you are very attractive and could probably find someone else,” Castiel says archly. Then he smiles and, wow, a smile that dark and sly should not send blood rushing south. “But I found you first. The only program you’re getting on with tonight is mine.”_

_And then he tumbles Dean into bed, and there are no more words._

* * *

_Castiel is a light sleeper, but fortunately he turns out to be a slow riser. He mumbles when Dean pulls away, grumbling what Dean thinks are insults to the sun and lack of coffee, but his face remains buried firmly in the pillow. He doesn’t even bother to pull the sheets back up, and the naked curve of his spine is just begging for Dean to kiss it, so he does._

_Not like he’s ever going to see Castiel again._

_He gets dressed, does a last minute search to make sure he doesn’t accidentally steal something and then is out the door before Castiel has even lifted his face to greet the bright sunlight._

_It’s impersonal and easy and everything Dean set out to find, and yet._

_And yet._

_And yet, when he closes the door behind himself, softly yet firmly so that the lock triggers, he takes one step outside and finds himself frozen. For not the first time, he thinks about walking back in and leaving his number or getting breakfast and sharing a morning meal, but this time he actually pictures it – kisses over coffee, hands and legs brushing as they stake their claim on breakfast items, smiles and tentative conversations filling the air. He thinks about how Castiel pried his life story (heavily redacted, of course) out of him so easily. He thinks about the way Castiel smiled, the way he squinted, the way he kissed Dean like there was no one else in the entire world._

_Like Dean mattered._

_But then he imagines trying to explain that he’s a high school dropout who has no job and no prospects, who hustles pool and runs credit card scams to pay for food and lodging, who lives out of motel rooms and his car, and the dream fades away, like fog dissipating in the sun. It hurts, of course it hurts, but Dean learned a long time ago to pack the hurt away, to breathe through it and keep marching._

_So he takes his hand off the door and turns around._

_“Good-bye, Castiel,” he says and sets off back towards the bar. “It was nice knowing you.”_

_After all, it’s not like he’ll ever see Castiel again._

* * *

Dean and Sam usually flip coins or play rock paper scissors for who gets to go talk to the professionals and who ends up interviewing the witnesses. They used to just trade off, but then somewhere along the long, winding path of explosions that is their lives, they’d long since lost count. Dean says that Sam is better at it and Sam says that Dean is more convincing, and they both know they’ll never convince the other, so here they are, sitting in the Impala, doing rock paper scissors like they’re ten years old again.

And of course Dean loses, because that’s the story of his life.

Sam smugly takes the sheaf of papers they got from the police chief, which has a bare-bones description of the three people who’ve turned up dead in the past week. They’ve already ruled out sulfur and demons, but that still leaves any of the, oh, twenty dozen other supernatural creatures who are physically or magically strong enough to tear people in half. Fortunately, the medical examiner happily agreed to let one of them come and take a look.

Unfortunately, that leaves Dean with the very fun task of knocking on the doors of everyone who was staying at the motel where the third dead body turned up. He’s really not looking forward to it.

“I’ll get burgers on the way back?” Sam offers, because sometimes he remembers to be a considerate brother.

“Damn right you will,” Dean tells him. “I’m gonna be starving after talking to so many civilians.”

“I mean, depends on how many were around that day. Most could’ve checked out.”

“Or I’ll find the one wacko who didn’t.”

“Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get out of the car and let me brood in peace before I make you get pie too.”

Sam knows a serious threat when he hears one, so he snaps Dean a mocking salute and gets out of the car. And yeah, Dean isn’t exactly raring to go stare at some gory corpses, but sometimes questioning civilians is way, way worse. At least most of the police officers leave them alone when they go digging in files. But sitting here moping won’t accomplish anything, so Dean puts the car into gear and heads back to the motel. Even if he doesn’t find out anything, at least there will be burgers tonight and that’s enough to put any man in a good mood.

* * *

The first door Dean knocks on doesn’t answer, even after ten minutes of rattling the knob, so Dean gives up. The second door is opened by a bleary-eyed woman in a thick robe, who snaps that she just checked in at the crack of dawn and knows nothing and if Dean asks her another question she’s going to strangle him with her bare hands. And the third door, well, the less said about the eyeful Dean got in there the better.

Still, at least Dean hasn’t been cried on or had to awkwardly comfort anyone, so he’s whistling happily as he knocks on the fourth door and waits for an answer. 

There’s a thump and a grunt, which Dean takes as assent that someone is coming, so he pastes on his best _I’m a professional federal agent_ smile and holds up his badge as the door swings open. He even gets started on his spiel as the door is opening because he’s learned the hard way that some people wrongly assume he’s housekeeping and slam the door shut in his face. Or, worse, assume he’s soliciting for . . . other things.

What Dean means to say is a fairly well-rehearsed script: “Hi, my name is Agent Young, I have a few questions related to the incident that happened about two, three nights ago.”

What comes out of Dean’s mouth is most certainly not rehearsed: “Hi, I’m Dean Winchester, I’m a hunter pretending to be with the FBI so I can ask you if you’ve seen a ghost recently.”

And then, while Dean is blinking at his own fake ID and wondering if he should pinch himself, the door opens completely, revealing a man with dark hair sticking up in every direction, shockingly blue eyes, and a suit and tie and trench coat who sets off every alarm bell Dean’s ever possessed because holy hell _he knows this guy_.

“Dean?” Castiel-the-one-time-roll-in-the-sack-Dean-accidentally-came-out-to says, blinking rapidly. “Is that . . . Is that you?”

“Um,” Dean says eloquently. “Hi?”

* * *

Dean has absolutely no memory of going from standing awkwardly in the corridor to sitting on the motel bed, but between one blink and the next he finds himself trying to count possible exits as Castiel shuts the door shut behind them and locks it. And slides the chain on, for good measure.

“You tryin’ lock me in?” Dean jokes weakly.

Castiel whips around like Dean punched him. His eyes are narrowed, but not in anger; if Dean had to put an emotion to him, he’d say surprised. “You ran away once already,” he says coolly. “And from what I understand of hunters, once you start running, you’re very good at disappearing.”

“How’d you know I was – ”

“You just told me,” Castiel reminds him impatiently. “At the door. I assume you’re investigating the suspicious deaths?”

Dean shuffles his feet. It’s one thing to discuss the supernatural with those in the know, but with civilians who don’t it’s a whole other ballgame. And Dean hates being the one who has to give the Talk. 

So he goes on the offensive. Looking up, he crosses his arms and says, “What’s it to you?”

Castiel doesn’t even blink at the change in his demeanor. He tilts his head and replies, “I’ve been looking for you for a long time now. It would be nice to know that my method of following suspicious deaths paid off. Although I suppose that luck intervening on our side would be nice as well,” he muses.

Dean edges away, eyeing the window. They’re on the second floor, but it’s not that big of a gap. Dean can probably make it. “I, uh, you know it was a one night kind of thing right?” he laughs nervously. “I don’t really – I don’t do long term stuff. You know.”

“You seem to have dedicated your life to hunting long term. Your fingerprints have been found at cases as far back as – ”

“Whoa, whoa, my _what_?”

Castiel actually honest-to-God rolls his eyes. And not a normal people roll your eyes either, no, he literally tilts his whole head upwards like he’s receiving revelation from angels or something. “Fingerprints, Dean,” he repeats, sounding exasperated. “You are excellent at destroying monsters’ remains and destroying evidence of supernatural beings at crime scenes. You are not so excellent at destroying evidence that ties you to said crime scenes.”

And wow, if there weren’t already a bevy of alarm bells going off in Dean’s head, there is, like, an entire army of them now. “How do you have my fingerprints?” Dean asks warily, sizing Castiel up and thinking about the knife in his boot.

“The Bureau’s been tracking you for a long time. I was assigned your case when I was promoted to heading my own team.”

Which is when Castiel pulls a very familiar-looking laminated badge from his trench coat pocket. Except for the bit where his is actually official.

Dean bolts for the window – 

And is promptly body slammed by a pissed off Castiel. Dean wriggles and kicks, but Castiel takes his blows without flinching and wrestles him to the ground, belly down and arms firmly pinned at his back, a knee digging painfully into his waist. Trying to push against him is like trying to move a mountain, and Dean lets loose a string of curses and debates trying to bite him. 

Castiel, the bastard, isn’t even out of breath when he snaps, “Stop struggling. I’m not going to hurt you, Dean.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean wheezes into the carpet. “And why should I believe you?”

“I am not immune to the laws of soulmates just because I am a supernatural being,” Castiel says sharply. “I cannot lie to you, as you cannot lie to me.”

Dean freezes. Because he can’t possibly have heard that correctly. “What?”

“I cannot lie to you,” Castiel repeats, voice a bit softer, “as you cannot lie to me.”

And Dean isn’t stupid, he knows the rules, he knows soulmates cannot lie to each other no matter what and it sure makes for some awkward-as-hell first dates but – but Dean had met Castiel once and within five seconds had spilled the story about Sam, he had told Castiel about being bisexual when he still hasn’t even told Sam or Bobby, and when he had walked away it had physically hurt with each step, like a part of him was being left behind.

Dean says, “Oh my god.”

* * *

Castiel handcuffs Dean to the bed, because he expects Dean to take him at his word but blatantly does not take Dean at his. It’s rude and annoying as hell, so Dean makes faces at him and rattles the cuffs the second Castiel backs away, just because he can.

“Kinky,” Dean says. “But I’m not really into – ” And the words die in his mouth because, oh right, he can’t lie to his soulmate.

Luckily, Castiel doesn’t seem to notice. He walks over to the briefcase on the desk, presses a few buttons, and it snaps open. He immediately starts rifling through, so completely focused it’s like he’s forgotten Dean’s in the room.

So Dean rattles the cuffs again. “Uh, so when’d you figure it out?”

“I can tell when humans are lying to me,” Castiel replies in an absent tone of voice, and oh good, he isn’t ignoring Dean completely. “You only told me the truth. It seemed very strange, since you seemed like the type to lie. And then I found myself telling you about Lucifer and then I knew.”

Dean really wants to needle Castiel about the whole brother-named-after-the-devil thing, but he’s got bigger problems. “You can tell when _humans_ are lying to you?” he repeats. “So what the hell are you?”

Castiel looks up then, and Dean is once again reminded what it’s like to be the full focus of those brilliant blue eyes. It kind of makes him want to roll over and show his belly. Among other things. In fact, he almost misses Castiel answering him over the thundering of his own traitorous heart.

“ – a phoenix,” Castiel is saying.

Dean looks him up and down, and then raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t they supposed to be like . . . Birds?”

For that, he’s treated to another patented Castiel eye roll. “My true form is, yes, but if you saw that your eyes would burn out of your skull.”

“And the reason for the tax accountant get-up is . . . ?”

Castiel frowns and smooths a hand down his trench coat. He seems genuinely hurt by the question, which is bizarre. “I like my coat. And the Bureau has a dress code.”

Which is when Dean remembers that, oh yeah, Castiel flashed an FBI badge at him. “And you, uh, work for the FBI? Do they know?” he asks, angling for as casual as he can while he goes back to working on escaping the handcuffs. “Or is that fake?”

Castiel scowls. “It’s real, I assure you. Unlike yours. And no, not everyone in the FBI knows, but there is a division specifically to handle supernatural cases. I was actually celebrating being promoted to join that division when we . . . met,” he says, voice full of meaning.

And Dean wouldn’t believe it, but for the fact that he tried to lie to Castiel five minutes ago and the words literally would not leave his mouth. He tries to reconcile this fact in his mind, that the FBI has a division for handling supernatural cases that employs supernatural beings, and still can’t quite wrap his mind around it. Because yeah, soulmates can’t lie, but there’s a lot of ways to avoid telling the full truth that aren’t lying. Plus, cynicism kind of runs in Dean’s blood.

So he looks at Castiel with his messy bedhead and backwards tie and weird trench coat, and he says, “Prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Prove it,” Dean repeats. 

“I can’t lie to you.”

“I swear to god, I will slip out of these handcuffs and strangle you. Prove it, Castiel.”

Castiel looks at him for a long, long moment. He can practically see Castiel thinking, although he can’t tell what, but, either way, after a few minutes Castiel nods to himself and steps forward. Dean’s not sure what, exactly, he is expecting, but he is _not_ expecting Castiel’s eyes to light up to a blinding blue, or Castiel’s hand to start glowing, or Castiel to press said glowing hand right to his chest.

Dean’s surprised yelp is lost in a rush of warmth that floods into his chest, like he’s been dunked in a warm bath. It rushes down to his legs and up to his neck, right on the edge of being too warm but not tipping over into pain, and then Castiel pulls his hand away and the feeling fades.

It takes Dean clearing his throat twice to get the words out. “What,” he spits out, “was that?”

Castiel lifts one shoulder and drops it in an awkward shrug. “I healed you,” he explains. “A phoenix’s flames heal us, when we are mortally wounded; they can also be used to heal others, if we choose to. You would have developed bruises from when I pinned you to the floor. Now you will not.” He frowns suddenly. “Also, you won’t be able to get out of those handcuffs. They’re spelled.”

On one hand, it explains why Dean hasn’t managed to get out when normally he can be out in five minutes. On the other hand: “Are you serious?”

“I did say the Bureau’s been searching for you for a long time,” Castiel says, not sounding the least bit repentant. 

“Well, I have no interest in going to jail, so how about you – ”

“I also have no interest in you going to jail.”

Dean falters, because that isn’t really where he was expecting Castiel to go. But then he remembers that Sam is probably going to come back because he expects to compare notes, which means he needs to get out and preferably far, far away before Castiel figures out that he can get the Winchester fugitives in a two-for-one package deal. So he says, “And I bet you don’t want a dropout fugitive attached to your squeaky-clean name, so how about you just let me – ”

“My name is not ‘squeaky clean’,” Castiel objects, and he honest-to-God makes air quotes. “The Novak bloodline has been responsible for some truly horrendous things in our past – ”

“Dude!” Dean exclaims, because seriously. “Would you just let me go? I promise I won’t come back.”

“Promise on what?”

“On anything you want.”

Castiel purses his lips. He looks at Dean, eyes narrowed and focused, the same look Dean remembers from their one night stand, like he’s peering into Dean’s very soul, and he says, flatly, “No, thank you.”

Dean thunks his head back against the headboard. “Cas,” he whines.

“No. I have been searching for you for _five years_ , Dean. I am not letting you go now.” He looks away and shuffles in place, as if surprised by the vehemence in his own voice. With a gentler tone, he says, “And besides, the warrant for your arrest was merely a cover. My division wants to recruit you, Dean. You’ve done great work and solved many cases before we even realized there was a case. You are insightful, resourceful, and charismatic. You would be a great asset to my division.”

“I’m a high school dropout!”

“Who successfully pursued and achieved a GED in your own time,” Castiel reminds him. “And besides, as you very well know, hunting is more about instincts than college degrees.”

“Okay, but . . .”

“Are you worried about Sam? We would recruit him as well, and offer him tuition assistance if he wishes to complete his degree.”

“How the hell do you know about Sam?”

Castiel inclines his head at the door. “Well, is there anyone else who you are hunting with who is now attempting to pick the lock on my door?”

Which is, of course, when the door bursts open and Sam leaps into the room.

* * *

Sam, predictably, laughs so hard about the situation that Castiel has to hastily shove a chair in his direction before the gigantic moron falls to the floor. He laughs for several more minutes while Castiel closes the door, locks it, and then goes to perch at the chair in the desk, completely at ease with the entire situation. It’s kind of hot, but mostly annoying, because Dean is still in handcuffs.

He rattles them at Castiel, hoping to get them removed, but instead he just sets Sam off again.

“Only you,” Sam wheezes, “only _you_ would have a soulmate who works for the FBI and wants to recruit us and – and you found him years ago and slept with him and ran away! Only you, Dean!”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Dean grumbles. He rattles the handcuffs again. “Cas, would you mind?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, completely deadpan. “I would mind.” 

“I’m not gonna run away! I just need to piss.”

“Forgive me if I don’t trust your word,” Castiel replies dryly, ignoring Sam losing it in the corner again. But his eyes soften and he stands up, walking right into Dean’s personal space as he comes over to the bed, and Dean has nowhere to go, so he has to just lay there, squished against the mattress like a bug waiting to be stomped on, as Castiel leans over the handcuffs. Warm fingers touch his hand and Castiel flicks his wrist, murmuring a word under his breath. The handcuffs click open and Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

Right up until he brings his hand down to his face and sees one gleaming handcuff still on his right wrist.

“ _Cas_.”

Castiel backs away, a smug little smile on his face, and Dean realizes that the wrist Castiel flicked now has the other cuff on it. If he squints, he can just make out the faintest, glittering thread that connects them, like a magical rope or chain.

“And now,” Castiel says when Dean stares at him with accusing eyes, “you cannot run. You can, however, get off the bed. Is this acceptable?”

This time, when Sam bursts into howls of laughter, Dean kicks him in the shin on the way to the bathroom.

* * *

Castiel turns out not to have been joking about the handcuff being spelled. Although Dean holds it up to the light and pries at it, he can find no seam, and although it’s thinner than a pencil, he can’t bend it at all. When he tries to jam it open using a knife, sigils light up in the metal, like a warning, and Dean gives up and stomps out of the bathroom.

Meanwhile, it appears his brother and his soulmate have managed to cover introductions, brief each other, and start researching, because the bed Dean had been chained to is now covered by papers, and both Castiel and Sam have their laptops open.

“ – yes, I think you’re right,” Castiel is saying to Sam, frowning slightly at his own screen.

“So, if I check out Victim Number Two – bingo!” Sam crows, clicking into a database. “Yep, she used to babysit at that place too – ”

“Which makes three out of three – ”

“Which means if we check the cemetery plots – ”

“We have them,” Castiel announces, sounding delighted. “Excellent work, Sam. I’ll call my superiors and let them know that this is a standard salt and burn.”

Then they actually high five, and Dean stares at them trying to make sense of the chaos that is now his life. They are both wearing puppyish grins of excitement, sleeves rolled up and vibrating with the thrill of a case solved, and it’s sickeningly adorable and frighteningly chaotic at the same moment. 

Dean clears his throat. “Anyone wanna fill me in?”

Which is how Dean finds out that they are hunting long-lost twin-sibling ghosts, who were separated at birth and found each other only to die tragically in an accident because their parents couldn’t get along and who are now murdering anyone who happens to disturb their old house. Sam figured out there might be more than one ghost while poking around at the morgue, Castiel figured out that the two ghosts might be related using his enormous FBI database of resources, and now they have a date with the cemetery to burn the bodies.

After Castiel and Sam stop vibrating, maybe.

“You two are going to gang up on me, aren’t you?” Dean sighs.

“Yes,” Castiel says, the exact same moment Sam says, “No.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna believe my soulmate over you,” Dean tells Sam. “Given that he can’t lie to me.”

It’s a thrill, to say the word _soulmate_ and know that he’s referring to his own. It’s even more of a thrill to see the way Castiel clearly lights up – and not the scary way with his powers, the normal people way where he sits up straighter and his smile widens. It ignites a swarm of warm and hopelessly soft butterflies in his stomach. 

It’s nice.

* * *

The thing about salt and burns is that they are either classic, straightforward, and easy, or they’re difficult, complex, and really, really obnoxious. Dean had been hoping that this would be one of the classic ones, especially given that they have an extra hand to move dirt and conduct research, but the second his shovel hits wood, there’s an unholy, eerie screech, and he’s getting hauled out of the grave by a seriously pissed off ghost.

Dean swings his shovel – well, actually, Castiel’s shovel, which apparently has iron inlaid in it, because the ghost shrieks and flickers out of existence. The downside of this is, of course, that the ghostly hand that had been wrapped around his throat vanishes too, and Dean plummets back into the six foot hole he had been digging.

His ankle goes bright with pain and a scream bubbles out of his throat, echoing in the dim night. Fortunately, it coincides with Sam’s own yelps, so at least Dean can be safe in knowing he’s not alone in being attacked.

There’s the booming blast of a gunshot, and Dean kind of regrets insisting that Castiel go help Sam, because it would’ve been nice if Castiel had shot Dean’s ghost for him.

“Sam! Cas! You okay?”

“We’re good, Castiel shot it!” Sam yells back. “But I think that’s our cue to dig faster!”

Well, Dean can’t argue with that. Rock salt and iron can only make ghosts retreat for so long. With a groan, Dean bites back the pain and whacks at the coffin below him. It’s cheap and brittle, the wood having buckled under years of mold and rot and water damage and, after putting his back into it, he manages to break a sizeable hole in the top. He drops his shovel and grabs the can of gasoline and pours a liberal amount everywhere, wincing as it splatters on his shoes and the dirt. That finished, he goes to hop out of the grave, fiddling with his lighter.

Which is when, of course, the ghost comes back.

Dean is hurtled out of the grave and into the nearest tombstone, and this time he can’t help the yell of pain that emerges when his probably-broken ankle hits the edge of the stone. In the distance he can see a bright plume of fire, so clearly Castiel and Sam have had some success, but he doesn’t have much time to think about it because then the ghost is on him.

She screeches in his face, fury written in every line of her transparent form, and slams him against the tombstone again. It’s not enough to make him lose consciousness, but it is enough for him to know that he’s going to have a fun headache in the morning.

He swats at her, even though he knows it won’t help anything because the shovel is still in the grave and he doesn’t have any iron, and she laughs in his face. Cold hands wrap around his throat and go tight, and Dean gasps and struggles and kicks futilely at thin air. 

Normally, this is when Sam would turn up and save the day.

This time, though, the ghost is just suddenly _gone_ , as abruptly as if she’d been shot with salt or hit with iron even though Dean didn’t hear anyone approaching, and new hands catch Dean when he lists sideways, gulping for air like a fish flopping on the shore. The hands are warm, almost too warm actually, and Dean looks up – 

And swallows hard.

It’s Castiel, and he is _on fire_. His eyes are shining that white-hot blue, his outline is flickering like flames dancing, and there are two huge, spectral, fiery things that are arcing out of his back. They’re so bright they look like someone cut a hole in the void of the night sky and revealed a second sun hiding in another plane of existence. They’re terrifying and beautiful and they are moving as Castiel does, like they have a mind of their own.

Wings, Dean realizes dimly. Castiel’s wings, pure fire like the phoenix he is.

The ghost rematerializes next to her grave, sneering at them. Castiel snarls at her, deep in his throat, and glows even brighter, if that were possible. His wings flare up, spreading like a peacock’s tail to make his outline even bigger.

“Do _not_ ,” Castiel says, voice as terrible as a roaring forest fire, “touch my soulmate.”

And then he raises one hand, palm facing the ghost, and a little spark detaches from the fires dancing around him and ignites like a mini fireball. The ghost shrieks and bursts into flames, and a roaring bonfire erupts from the grave, reaching high into the sky, above the tree line. Dean’s not sure how much of that is because of the copious gasoline he used and how much is just because Castiel is a phoenix, but it’s definitely a sight worth seeing, even if he has to blink away spots in his vision. 

Those fiery wings close around Dean and Castiel, like a cocoon, and Castiel says, “Dean, where are you hurt?”

“I’m – ” The words die in Dean’s throat, because he is very much not fine, so he quickly switches to: “I’ll be fine.”

The way Castiel’s eyes narrow tells Dean that he totally heard the attempted lie.

“Dude, the ghosts are gone and we need to get out of here before anyone comes to check out that light show, we don’t have time for a heart to heart,” Dean points out. 

The wings vanish as abruptly as though someone had flicked a light switch, and, if Dean didn’t know better, he would say Castiel was actually pouting.

“It was a cool light show though,” Dean admits.

Castiel rolls his eyes just as Sam runs up, dirt smeared across his hands and blood dripping down the side of his face. It’s a job well done, Dean thinks, except of course when he goes to stand up, his ankle and his throbbing head make themselves known again. 

Specifically, Dean takes one step and then passes out. Because it’s just his luck.

* * *

When Dean wakes up later, he finds himself laid out on a bed. The lights next to the bed are off, but Dean can hear the murmur of voices and the roar of traffic, so he guesses he’s back at the motel and in Castiel’s room. He twitches his leg, expecting to feel either a tight bandage or pain, but all he feels is the slight, faded ache of an old injury, and he catches himself smiling. It’s a little embarrassing that Castiel probably had to drag his butt out of the cemetery like a swooning princess, but apparently his soulmate still likes him enough to heal his injuries so that’s something.

Castiel also, apparently, used his mojo to clean up Dean’s clothes, because he doesn’t have a speck of dirt on him. He really hopes it was Castiel’s mojo, anyways, because the alternative is something that Dean’s brain shies away from thinking about.

Sam’s braying laughter rings out in the darkness, followed by a gruff admonition that’s from Castiel, probably to tell his gigantor brother to lower his voice. Dean rolls his eyes and heaves himself out of bed to follow, mostly to check on his brother but also because his growling stomach is insistent on finding food.

He finds his brother and his soulmate in the next motel room, the interconnecting door swung open to allow passage; Sam must’ve switched their room reservations to get one that connects with Castiel’s. Sam is sprawled on the bed, grinning with a half-eaten salad in front of him, and Castiel is perched neatly at the desk, a mostly devoured burger still in the foil clutched in his hands. The atmosphere is relaxed and cozy, and Dean soaks it in, feeling lighter than air, buoyed at the idea of the two parts of his family getting along.

Castiel notices him come in, because of course he does. He silently pushes forward another bag, a small smile on his face, and Dean hauls a chair close and probably makes very inappropriate noises at the still-warm burger and fries inside.

He’s happily filling his mouth with them when Sam stretches and yawns very conspicuously, like he’s trying to let a predator know he’s there so he won’t get pounced on.

Sam says, very loudly, “I’m beat, I’m gonna go to bed. Night, Castiel. Night, Dean.”

Dean side-eyes him for that, halfway through his burger, and then regrets it and nearly chokes when Sam claps him heavily on the back and whispers, “Don’t be a self-sacrificing jerk.”

The interconnecting door swings shut with an audible _click_ , and Dean has never hated and loved his brother more at the same time than at this moment.

Fortunately, Castiel seems content to just sit there. It’s a little creepy, the way he watches Dean without ever seeming to blink, but Dean’s eaten under worse conditions and cold fries are disgusting, so he just keeps shoveling food in his mouth until it’s all gone and he can sprawl back in his chair with a contented burp.

Castiel wrinkles his nose. “Dean.”

“Listen, your soulmate has no manners, and you better get used to it,” Dean tells him, closing his eyes.

Silence greets that remark, so Dean opens his eyes again and looks at Castiel. Castiel looks a bit like someone’s whacked him over the head, and it’s so alarming that Dean sits up.

“What?”

Castiel tilts his head. “Your words . . . Do you mean to stay with me, then?”

“I thought that’s why I had this,” Dean says, raising his wrist to wave the still-very-attached handcuff at him. “So I couldn’t run?”

Castiel blinks, as if he’d forgotten it was still there. “Oh, I meant to remove that,” he murmurs, leaning forward. He catches Dean’s hand before Dean can pull it back, fingers warmer than any human’s should be. He mutters a soft word and the handcuff splits neatly apart. Then he retreats, leaving Dean cold and confused.

“I thought you had a warrant for me,” Dean says slowly.

“To recruit you, not arrest you,” Castiel explains. “You can refuse to work with us, you know. And I thought. Well. I would not hold you here if it wasn’t what you wanted, Dean.”

And of course Dean knows that Castiel can’t lie to him, but it’s different, somehow, hearing Castiel say words that clearly pain him, seeing Castiel fidget and look down, watching how his shoulders shrink and he hunches in on himself. He obviously thinks that Dean is going to do a runner, pack his things and vanish into the night like he did all those years ago.

Of course, things are different now.

“Hey,” Dean says gently and drags his chair closer. He reaches out and takes Castiel’s hands in his own, relishing in how warm they are. “I didn’t know we were soulmates, when we met. And I can’t – I can’t say that if I’d known I would have stayed. My parents were soulmates and it didn’t . . . it didn’t end well.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not done yet.” Dean takes a deep breath. You can’t lie to your soulmate, but that only applies to what comes out of your mouth. He could never say anything else, and Castiel would never know but – but Dean ran from Castiel once, and it’s only sheer dumb luck that brought them together again. He can’t count on that luck again. If anything, usually Dean has worse luck than the average person. 

_You should find happiness wherever you can._

_Don’t be a self-sacrificing jerk._

“I’m not. Uh. Good. At this kind of stuff,” Dean says, kind of lamely. “But I’d like to try. For you. With you. You know. If you want me too?”

It’s honestly the worst speech Dean’s ever given, and he’s given quite a few bad ones in his life, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Castiel’s fingers curl within his own, slotting into place between his own like puzzle pieces locking together, and Castiel’s eyes are bright with happiness, so bright they’re almost hard to look at, but Dean does it anyways, because Castiel is truly beautiful like this.

“Of course I want you,” Castiel tells him. “Of course I want this. Why do you think I searched for you for so long?”

“Well, you kinda sucked at finding me.”

“You were a very difficult quarry.”

“Oh yeah? Five years and the resources of the entire FBI couldn’t find me?” 

Somehow, they’ve drifted together, knees bumping, breath mingling, close enough for Dean to reach out and _take_. The whole world fades away, sounds and lights falling to the edges of his perception, until there’s nothing and no one but Castiel, glowing and happy like he’s the only thing that matters, because he is.

“You know how to disappear very well. But I was determined to find you. Although I had hoped for a less . . . eventful reunion.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Welcome to the Winchester way of life, Cas. Eventful is what we do.”

“No one’s ever called me that before.”

“What? Cas? Do you want me to stop?”

“No. I like it.”

“I know what else you like,” Dean says, because it’s been years but he still remembers almost everything about their night together: the way Castiel’s eyes widened when he pressed their groins together; the gorgeous noises he made when Dean sunk his teeth into Castiel’s neck; how Castiel purred like a cat when Dean stroked his hair. Each moment, shining and perfect in a little Castiel collection – one ready for expansion. “But maybe we should go for a refresher? Just in case.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and rolls his shoulders like he’s working a kink out of them, and then the entire room spins dizzily around them. Dean finds himself suddenly not in his chair anymore, but flat on his back on the bed, out of breath, with Castiel perched on top of him, warm and beautiful and smug as a cat that got the canary.

Seeing as Dean has to blink away the sparks in his vision, he has a good idea of what happened. “Did you just – did you just _fly_ us to the bed that’s two inches away?” Dean demands.

“You kept me waiting a long time, Dean,” Castiel says severely.

The kiss he gives Dean is gentle, though, and it speaks volumes. So Dean leans up, wraps his arms around his soulmate, and kisses Castiel back, knowing Castiel will understand the truth he wants to say.

_I’ll stay._

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: When they have breakfast the next morning, Sam gives Dean and Castiel evil eyes because they did not at all keep the volume down. Castiel gets to call his superiors and smugly tell them that he found Dean and Sam. Dean and Castiel go on to be the best partners in the division. They live happily ever after, the end. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, I highly suggest checking out the rest of the gifts in the [AO3 collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PBExchangeReunion). If you're 18+, you can also come hang out in the [Profound Bond Discord server!](https://profoundnet.fandom.com/wiki/Profoundnet_Wiki#ProfoundBond_Discord_Server)
> 
> And this is my first (but hopefully not last) Dean/Castiel fic, so if you want, you can also find me @ Telegram/Discord as TheSilverQueen : [Pillowfort as TheSilverQueen](https://www.pillowfort.social/thesilverqueen) : [Tumblr as thesilverqueenlady](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com) : [Twitter as silverqueenlady](https://twitter.com/silverqueenlady)


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